


Hawksview

by Wordwitch



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Boarding School, Established Relationship, F/F, Older Characters, Older Woman/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-17
Updated: 2009-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordwitch/pseuds/Wordwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's time a little excitement was brought back into the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawksview

**Author's Note:**

> A Present for Resonant.  
> Late as usual, nevertheless I have completed this story in honor of her birth and work.

"I wanted to thank you, Minerva, for introducing Potter to Wood."

I wanted to thank her for more than that, but of course I could not. It wouldn't be seemly to thank her for bringing excitement back to the sport. But she understood anyway, casting her hooded eyes down, her long, clever mouth quirked up at the ends.

"It was my pleasure, I assure you. I do trust that the boy did not get into too much trouble for his disobedience?"

I snorted, thinking of that troublemaker. I would have my hands full the next seven years, without doubt.

"I took ten points from Gryffindor for disobedience, and twenty from Slytherin for unsporting behavior."

I felt my temper starting up again. I simply can not abide bullies and cheats. Minerva cast her green gaze my way, and I could feel my flush turn into a blush. She knows me quite well, after all this time.

"I was interrupted in my tea, Rolanda. Would you care to join me for a fresh pot?"

I nodded, and we strode sedately toward her tower, students parting before us. The piping voices of the first-years skirled about us, punctuated by the half-scale tremors of the fourth-years and the basses and sopranos of the seventh-years, not all of them attached to the expected genders. Ah, adolescence.

I felt a smile tug at my lips as we entered her graceful parlor, which was once again becoming familiar to me. Agrilanta nodded to me from her painted couch, and the spaniel poked a grinning muzzle through the high water-color grasses before returning to his eternal hunt. The fire crackled merrily, and Minerva offered me a seat and a cup and a cake.

The house-elves have always favored Minerva. I lost myself in gustatory glee for a time.

I roused from the last of the crumbs to find that my hat and short robe had been taken at some point, and Minerva was in the green dress she favors under her scholar’s robe, her soft gray hair sliding a bit from its knot. Smiling wickedly, she reached forward and brushed a morsel from the side of my mouth, and I licked the nearest finger, smirking back.

My eyes closed as she reached a bit higher, running her elegant fingers through my short graying brush, and I leaned in.

“It’s a while until dinner,” she murmured, “and Severus is in the halls. Won’t you join me for a … nap?”

I set down my cup and saucer, and helped her to her feet; even at nearly seventy, she needed it no more than she did at thirty-five when I was a green fifth-year and smitten past bearing. It would be another ten years, then, before my letters and poems and gifts would win me entrée into her parlor; it had been twelve years, now, since we parted company under the stress of the struggle against that soi-disant Dark Lord.

In the dim afternoon light of her bedchamber, I spoke her buttons open and pushed the fabric over her white shoulders, baring the crepe-fragile skin and fine bones, the long graceful sweep of bosom and waist and hip, dragging my fingers along the intriguing dips of the well-earned wrinkles. She transfigured my jean flying skirt into silks that slithered from my rawboned frame, dragging what had once been a cotton button-down blouse over my own broad shoulders and scant breasts, teasing my nipples with the texture.

I slid my hands around her soft waist and kissed her, sending her hairpins winging toward their jar on her night-table; from her greater height she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, laying her slim lips on mine again and again, her hair catching on her arms, my arms, tangling its ends among my fingers. She was delicious in my hold, soft and firm, the delicate padding from the pre-war years back on her long frame. I strained toward her, licking her mouth open, petting her lower lip with my tongue.

She pulled me through the velvet bed-curtains, and I snickered and rolled over on the thick quilt, rising to my knees and pouncing on her, cupping one pale breast to my mouth and suckling the pink nipple as she gasped and laughed and murmured. She ran a thumb around the shell of my ear, sending me into shudders, and then repeated the action with her strong satin tongue as she stroked my nipple and giggled at my convulsion. I nipped at her with my teeth, and blew rudely on her navel, stroking the spare silk between her legs, dipping further as she drew up her knee and let me in.

I could smell her now, the syrup of her arousal nutmeg-rich and smoky, tanged with the sharp wine of her earlier flight down the stairs, and I had to taste, had to sample, had to drink deep of her, catching her fountain in my mouth and her murmurs on my skin, sweeping my hands restlessly over the strong hips, gasping for breath against her thighs. So hungry, I was so hungry for her. I captured the strands of her nest between my lips and pulled, gently, and she inhaled, clutching at my head and laughing.

Like eating a peach, it was, her juices slick on my chin and fragrant under my nose. I dragged my tongue from spring to spout and suckled, pulling the satin hood forward and pushing it back, rocking with her movements, tucking my chin deep as she overflowed. I slurped loudly to hear her laugh, and then slid a finger, two fingers, over the cushion that guarded her depths and into her close embrace. She inhaled so hard her hips rose, so I swept my fingers side to side before hooking them in behind the swell of her pubic bone, stroking the same spot with tongue and fingertips as her exclamations lost all hint of language and her walls clutched me fiercely, desperately. Her thighs clamped hard around my head, and her syrup flooded my mouth, suddenly sweet and thin and utterly ravishing.

After a moment she released me, falling utterly slack to the bed, gasping in deep, harsh breaths. I worked my free hand under her waist, and strew kisses on her silk, gentling her back to reality. Soon enough, she dragged me up for kisses, and we began all over.

@&gt;~~&lt;@

  
Severus looked at me sourly at supper, but then this required no change in expression for him. I lifted an eyebrow at him; as I said, I can not abide bullies and cheats, and it seemed to me that Slytherin had been having its own way long enough on the pitch. And one would think he would trust me; after all, I called the wins for Slytherin even though I despised him. There was no need to think I would turn around and call wins for Gryffindor simply because Minerva was its Head of House.

I was simply glad to see a little excitement brought back into the game. That was all.


End file.
